


In Curls of Smoke

by iamnotelegant



Series: pump your veins (with gushing gold) [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Heavy Angst, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, This will be heavy, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony-centric, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 20:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20588858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnotelegant/pseuds/iamnotelegant
Summary: Ever since he can remember, he has always been staring out the empty end of a bottle. Lost within the crystalline, smoothness of it when it empties of whiskey—a vague memory of amber liquid burning harshly down his throat, tasting so much of rot and demons, and everything in-between them.





	In Curls of Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> A Drabble inspired by “Black Mambo” by Glass Animals. Title is also inspired by the band as well. I needed an outlet for my angst and decided to write this. 
> 
> WARNING: angst ahead. Physical/emotional/psychological abuse inflicted on Tony as a child and teen. If you cannot handle it, please turn back.
> 
> If so, carry on. You have been forewarned.

Ever since he can remember, he has always been staring out the empty end of a bottle. Lost within the crystalline, smoothness of it when it empties of whiskey—a vague memory of amber liquid burning harshly down his throat, tasting so much of rot and demons, and everything in-between them.

He is only six years old when Howard, for the first and by far not the least, lays his hands on him.

A mistake Tony makes in the lab when Howard finally allows him to impress and boast of the skills he’s wielded since he learned how to walk and talk, too ecstatic at the chance to finally ensconce himself within his father’s approval—he misses a wire and watches it snap and bite at his fingers; a tiny shock entering the nerves beneath his skin.

Very minuscule, but he is young and pain is still something he isn’t much used to.

He yelps, cries, and releases the circuit board, his father an angry witness.

Moments later, after a pinch to the side of his stomach, the skin above his ribs blooming in purple-blues that swell with his pain. He swears off mistakes, but as he matures it only piles higher and higher in the eyes of his father.

_You’ll never be good enough,_ his father eventually accuses when he is older, not older by much though; Tony is still a genius with a level of understanding most adults don’t have, which intensifies the sting of Howard’s words.

But he can be better.

_He can be better._

* * *

He is twelve years-old when he sneaks into his father’s study with the onset rise of a thirst he has limited understanding of—a blockage he isn’t used to. Only that he craves an escape from the harsh words of his father and the pinches that have now transformed into full-on out slaps across his face, sometimes the back of his head, leaving him with a raging headache.

He eyes the crystal-encased decanter that sits on the mahogany edge of his father’s desk, an amber liquid that glimmers low in the dim light of the fireplace; surrounded by dark walls, and waxed-wooden floors.

If the decanter were a live, animated thing, it would probably know his father better than him—memories of peeking past the tiny slip of space found in the door held ajar, observing his father clumsily refilling drink after drink, hollowed-eyed and searching.

Always searching. Tony doesn’t understand what for because mother is always home. Sometimes locked in her room, but she is still there.

_(But it’s different then because Tony is still young, and no matter how intelligent he is, he believes he can still love and be loved by his father. Even after he has grown accustomed to the pain; long after he learns not to cry when Howard hurts him—because he’s brave, and strong, and not weak._

_Long before he knows better and Maria discovers what Howard has been doing because she is still locked away, like a princess in a tower; hidden from the world.)_

* * *

He is limping at first but pushing through the sharpness of it—always pushing through it.

Stark’s are iron, and blood, always building up from the ashes, spreading their wings like phoenix’s.

They are not weak and void of talent or brains. They are vigorous and relentless, bold and clever, always talking with a wit that cuts people in half. Always on a wavelength beyond everybody’s understanding and reach, looking to the future and its brilliant potential. 

But there is the familiar, metallic taste of blood in his mouth, drying in crusted-stains along the lobe of his left ear, a ring only he can hear caught and held in the distance.

His fingers are inches away from the surface of the decanter when he hears a loud, sudden roar from the hallway, then the smashing sound of glass against marble.

Then Tony’s gone, evasive like a shadow on a sidewalk.

* * *

He is fourteen when he sips vodka for the first time, experimenting with people he calls friends, the majority of them a few years older with smiles that bait the soul of comfort he has lost touch with.

There is one with a pretty smile and even prettier eyes; he sees the softness of his mother in her and finds himself drawn like a moth to a flame, dangerous and hot, the burn inevitable in a way he doesn’t mind—not when she smiles at him so warmly, the opposite of a volcano on the verge of eruption.

_Age is just a number,_ he teases, and she gently pushes at his shoulder—she doesn’t see him flinch, doesn’t catch the quick flash of uncertainty across his face, overly-concerned about her easy affection and intimacy. Instead, she is laughing beautifully without the haunt of fists and blood, her red hair spilling over one shoulder as she chastises him with a breathless _T__ony!_

She is sixteen and ends up being his first kiss, first touch, first something that reaches an impasse of an almost love.

And he thinks he can breathe.

But Howard’s there again, smashing the empty bottle of vodka Tony comes home with weeks later, surprised to see Howard home but also too inebriated to care, laughing at his father’s anger, feeling spiteful. It’s another mistake added to the pile, he realizes, because Howard’s fist is connecting with his face and all he can hear within that second is the echoing scream of his mother, harrowing in his ears.

He spits out blood, laughs bitterly, already resigned, and whispers: “is this how you treat your one and only son?”

Howard only sneers back, “you mean my waste of a son?”

Tony pretends he doesn’t feel the crack of something visceral within him.

* * *

_“I’m sorry, it’s not you; it’s me.”_

_“It’s okay. That’s fine.”_

_(Stark’s are iron, even when her countenance is softened by her sympathy.)_

* * *

He is too privileged with an excessive amount of time on his hands, not interested in school because he knows he is more intelligent than the sheep herding there--when his mother approaches him one day; her kindness a welcome relief in the aftermath of another sordid meeting with Howard.

“Anthony,” calls out the soft lullaby of her voice, remnants of happier times constantly heard in her silken tones. “My boy, come here,” she gestures with slender arms.

They curl up together on the patio, listening to the wind around them, to the rustle of the cherry blossoms she planted with him when he was nine; hints of its sweet fragrance drifting along the gentle breeze. They observe as the sun moves within white, feathery clouds; a game of hide and seek Tony finds endearing through the heavy haze of his hangover.

These moments are perfect, when they don’t need words but just the comfort found in each other’s presence. His mother’s pale, dainty hands combing through his hair, unraveling his worries and thoughts of tomorrow.

She is the only light found within his darkness. The only embers of softness and warmth buried deep behind the bones of his ribs.

And then she says,

“There is a boarding school in Switzerland—"

The dream shatters, and Tony feels alone.

_(And no matter how intelligent he is, no matter how more mature he is than the average teenager, he is still too young and too angry to see beyond her words; not realizing she is trying to help in her own way.)_

* * *

He is fifteen when his father seems almost smug to see him off, watching from beside Maria, a constant shadowed presence in contrast to his mother’s bright, flame of light and joy as she waves with white-gloved hands.

A worthless man that does not deserve the love of a worthy woman.

Tony is uncertain if he is imagining things, but there is something in Howard’s eyes—that in a sick and twisted way—almost makes the old geezer look fucking _proud_.

It’s years too late for that though, Tony long ago giving up on that notion of his that one day he will receive the validation and respect he yearned from the man. That they will grow to love one another. But he doesn’t want it anymore; not needing it like the necessity it once was, like the air passing through his lungs.

So he puts on his shades, straightens his suit, and turns away from the idea Howard used to possess—and walks into the sanctuary of his private jet, pouring himself a scotch on the rocks.

Although he loves his mother dearly, this goodbye unwarranted and tearing a hole through him--a final, secreted part of him threatening to cave and collapse—he doesn’t shed a single tear.

This pain having already been embedded deep into him like a second skin.

_Starks are made of iron, and blood, they build themselves from the ashes and fit the world into their hands. They're not weak._

_He is not weak._

_He is better._

_He has to be._

**Author's Note:**

> just a late night drabble I needed to get out of my head. it's on the heavier side, but since when is my writing not? I am also extremely tired, so please excuse all grammatical errors and misspellings. I will touch up on them in the morning lol.
> 
> as anyways, thank you for reading!


End file.
